


Without a Shadow (of a Doubt)

by caesiumlight



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesiumlight/pseuds/caesiumlight
Summary: In the dark of night, Yixing finds a forgotten god.





	

Luhan teases him, as he does every year. 

“He doesn’t even have a shrine!”

“He does!” Yixing protests, half-heartedly, because he knows it’s a losing battle. “It’s small, but it’s still a shrine.”

“My dear, silly didi,” and Yixing rolls his eyes at his overly indulgent tone, “what can a minor deity do that the great gods can’t?” 

“It’s not that…” And it really isn’t. He doesn’t go for the wishes. Yixing’s not sure how to explain it to Luhan, how he doesn’t want anyone to be lonely on New Year’s, gods included. He shrugs, changes the subject as he carefully presses the cooked rice between his palms. “Who are you visiting this time?”

“Lord Chanyeol.”

“Ah. The god of fire, of passion. And naturally, of love.” Yixing winks at Luhan. “Hoping to spice things up with Minseok hyung?”

Luhan snorts, pinking a little. “It’s bad luck to tell.” 

Yixing counts to three inside his head, and predictably, Luhan divulges everything anyway. 

 

\--

 

It’s small, and simple. Three creaky steps leading up to four wooden pillars, with paint peeling off them, surrounding a lowly stone carved with the name of the deity. 

_Kai, Lord of the Shadows of the Night._

Yixing supposes he understands why nobody chooses to visit. What can one ask from such a god? Nowadays, not many even believe in the tradition of sending wishes on New Year’s. They go simply because it’s a fun and amusing thing to do with friends. And then they hit the parties for the countdown. The shrine, nestled away from the city, up a frankly murderous trek into the woods, is the last thing from trendy. It’s unimpressive and old, paling significantly in comparison to the lavish temples of the other gods. 

Yixing still likes it, somehow. It feels homey. It’s partly why he comes, every year since he stumbled upon it wondering the forest. 

He bows formally at the foot of the shrine, then shakes his head at the state it’s in. The stone is overgrown with moss, and dried leaves are strewn all over the wooden planks serving as flooring. Cobwebs hang from every corner. Yixing’s come prepared; he brings a small broom each time, seeing as no one else bothers with the temple’s maintenance. It makes him glad that he can do this for the deity at least. He sets down his bag and sweeps. 

Up the stairs, onto the platform, and Yixing emits a startled gasp, tripping backwards when his broom uncovers an unconscious figure lying among the leaves. Yixing takes several deep breaths, pressed frozen against the furthest pillar, willing the pounding of his heart to slow. He’s never encountered anyone in his visits before. Another reason why Luhan tries to prevent him from going – “it’s dark, and dangerous, and there could be a murderer lying in wait _just for you!_ ” 

Yixing doubts this is one, though.

“Hey,” he manages shakily, “are you alright?”

No response. Concern overwhelming his fear, he picks his way over to the figure’s side. It’s a young man, dressed in a plain shirt and pants. He fumbles for a pulse, releasing a sigh of relief when he finds one, though weak. Yixing removes his jacket and wraps it around the man’s torso, then heaves him up and leans him onto one of the pillars. 

He checks his cell; no signal. He’ll have to make a trip back into the city to phone an ambulance. 

“Have you… come to visit Lord Kai?”

Yixing jolts away in surprise. “What?”

The man’s eyes are barely open, his breathing shallow, but he repeats his question weakly. 

“Yes,” Yixing tells him, “but that can wait. Are you hurt? I can’t reach anyone here, I’ll have to go back down for help.” 

The man shakes his head, straightens himself up. Yixing blinks in surprise; colour appears to have returned to his cheeks. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just… fell asleep.” He looks at Yixing, and gives him a small smile that sends a curious warmth through him. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, of course it’s you.”

“I don’t follow,” Yixing says, confused. 

The man tilts his head, considering him. “Sorry,” he says finally. “I don’t usually make sense when I’m tired. Or hungry. Have you… any food?”

Yixing only has the rice balls he brought as an offering. He takes out the neatly wrapped package from his bag and hands it to the man. “Here, eat up.”

“This is for me?”

“For Lord Kai, actually,” Yixing chuckles. “But I don’t think he’d mind.”

“No,” the man says softly. “I don’t think he would.” He takes a tentative bite. “These are good. Spicy.”

“My mother’s recipe,” Yixing says, settling cross-legged beside the man. “You cook the rice with sesame oil and chilli flakes. Makes it fragrant.”

“I see. Thank you,” the man says, voice thick, and Yixing flicks his gaze over.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, of course.” 

Yixing stares. It’s true, the man’s tone is richer; his movements, more sure and strong. In a span of merely two minutes he’d gone from looking half-dead to completely hale. Only now does Yixing notice his glowing skin, sculpted jaw, broad shoulders. 

The man senses his uncertainty, and says, quietly, “Everything’s better when you’re well-fed.”

 _And remembered_ , Yixing thinks he hears, but he can’t be sure. 

 

\--

 

The sun is sinking down when Yixing finally kneels in front of the stone, now clean of moss. The man had helped him with clearing the leaves. He wishes for good health for his parents, for his friends, for himself. For the spirit of hard work to never leave him. 

He feels the man’s gaze on him, and tries not to fidget.

“You don’t ask for much.”

“I have no want for much.” 

“Then why do you come?” 

“It’s tradition, is it not?” Yixing replies, cautiously. The question is too personal, and it sounds far too much like a test.

“Forgive me,” the man murmurs, contrite, “it was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.” 

Yixing nods, getting up and dusting off his knees. “It’s late. We should head back.”

“You go on. I’ll stay for a while longer.”

Yixing frowns, glancing at the quickly dissipating red and orange hues in the sky. The shadows hanging limply from the trees have grown longer, dancing in the dying glow. 

“It’s cloudy today, so there won’t be much light to guide you back. You’ll trip over something and end up with a broken leg.”

“Don’t worry,” the man says cheerfully. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I can wait—”

“No, no,” the man insists, firm. “You’ve done enough for me.” He reaches forward, brushes the hair away from Yixing’s forehead. It’s strangely intimate. Unbidden, Yixing’s pulse quickens. “Go, before it gets too dark.”

Yixing hesitates, unsure. He feels oddly attached, protective. A stranger he may be, but the man seems familiar, somehow. Fishing a scrap of paper out, he scrawls his cell onto it. “If anything happens, try to get to the city. You can reach me at this number.” 

“Zhang Yixing,” the man reads off the paper. “Yixing.” 

“Yes. What about you? What’s your name?”

The man smiles; it lights up his eyes, and Yixing sucks in a breath. “Jongin. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yixing.”

 

\--

 

Yixing checks his phone incessantly, as he reaches the city, as he gets onto the train back home. There’s nothing, and it’s worrying. He checks the time; perhaps it isn’t too late to go back and get Jongin. Since he’s nearing his apartment, he’ll just grab an additional coat, maybe find a torch if he can. His apartment’s dim, and as he closes the door the last of the outside lights wink out. 

The strangest sense of peace envelops him, cocoons him in softness. His mind blanks; he’s a little too sleepy. He’ll take care of whatever it is he had to do tomorrow. His feet carry him to the bed, without a bump even in complete darkness. 

Morning brings with it a sharp stab of light that rolls him unceremoniously out of the covers. He’s got a lunch appointment with Luhan, who no doubt will use this opportunity to laugh at him again. But he’s distracted, and flustered, and eventually has to give into Luhan’s pestering as to why he’s been looking at his phone every few minutes or so for the past hour. 

“Was he cute?”

Yixing sighs. “Go away, Lu ge.”

“You’re awfully concerned, I’m just saying.”

“I thought he’d have texted, by now,” he mumbles into his noodles. Luhan’s eyebrows rise, comically slowly. “I just want him to be alive,” Yixing amends, leaving out the part in which he fully intends to go back to the forest to make sure.

Luhan sees right through him anyway, and buys a second portion of steamed buns to take with him. “Bring him back with you this time,” he singsongs at Yixing’s retreating back.

The path to the shrine appears different when Yixing climbs it again. It’s… easier to get up, with fewer crisscrossing tree roots and stones in the way. As if somebody had cleared it. It opens into the wide clearing, with the shrine situated slightly off center. There’s a figure, sitting placidly on one of the wooden banisters joining the pillars near the roof. It should be alarming, bizarre. But the image fits. Yixing knows he should question why he’s still here. Why he hadn’t left. What he’s been doing. 

Yixing only wonders idly how he’d climbed up. 

“I’d be careful, if I were you,” Yixing says. “They’ll probably give way at any moment.” 

“Yixing,” Jongin beams at him. He looks delighted. “Back so soon?”

He recites the excuse he prepared. “I didn’t leave anything for Lord Kai, the last time,” but Jongin’s eyes twinkle merrily, and Yixing flushes. Luhan had always called him a terrible liar. 

“You needn’t have worried,” Jongin says, hopping gracefully off. “I had work to do here.”

“The path?”

Jongin nods approvingly, as if Yixing had said something particularly clever. “Yes, among other things.”

Yixing waits, but Jongin doesn’t elaborate. It doesn’t matter; Yixing finds himself peculiarly willing to simply accept Jongin as he is, mysteries and all. He takes out a paper plate, arranging three buns on it, and places it in front of the stone. 

Jongin peers at Yixing’s bag. “Any left for me?”

Yixing shakes his head; Jongin’s mischievous grin tells him that he knows there’re extras. “You remind me of my friend, Luhan. You both think you’re so clever.”

Jongin laughs, bright and happy. “Hand them over.” 

 

\--

 

School starts, and with it, the whirlwind of assignments that pile up. First week has him marking down the myriad of deadlines in March, running around trying to find a singer for his final composition (Jongdae), and a dance partner for his showpiece (Sehun). In return, he’s booked as tutor for their additional language requirements. 

It’s on Saturday, when dance practice is over, that he finally finds the time to visit the shrine again. Yixing has long since given up on Jongin contacting him like a regular person. He brings along two containers of congee, with dried shrimp and century eggs. 

The path is cleaner than he remembers, evened out and wider. Deep purple flowers curve gently by the side. They’re irises; they’re not in season, and Yixing knows this should be unusual. But he won’t question it. Not yet.

Jongin’s in the clearing, swaying in time with the breeze, bending as gracefully as the flowers. Yixing stares, mesmerized, as he glides in a seemingly formless yet choreographed trajectory, free and delicate.

“You should teach me,” Yixing says. 

“You dance, too?” 

“Yes.”

Jongin smiles. “Perhaps you can show me?”

Yixing demurs, suddenly shy. “When my final piece is ready, maybe.”

“How’s that coming along?”

“Slowly.” 

“Legend has it that even among gods, Lord Kai is known for his dancing.”

“ _Dancing?_ ”

Jongin huffs a little at Yixing’s incredulous expression. “Can the gods not dance, too?”

“I suppose they can.”

“You can ask Lord Kai for help on your piece.” 

“Watching you is enough, I think.” 

Jongin visibly brightens at his compliment, clasping both hands at his back and giving a small bow. Yixing laughs, undeniably charmed. 

“I do like a little praise.”

“I can see that.”

“Even the gods do!”

“You think?”

“Oh yes,” Jongin says, reaching eagerly for the container of food Yixing takes out of the bag. “The gods need attention, admiration. They need followers, and offerings. They need to be needed, to be loved.”

“What happens,” Yixing asks carefully, “if they aren’t?” 

Jongin shrugs, affecting casualness, but Yixing can see the stiff line of his shoulders. “Unknown gods have no place in this world. They cease to exist.” 

Yixing falls silent. Jongin shovels congee into his mouth while he stares at his own bowl, guilty. He’d come for the whimsical idea of keeping a god company. But so detached and far from human thought and expression the gods seemed, that he never stopped to consider: it’s the same for them as it is for men. You die if you fade from the memories of those who live. 

“Lord Kai won’t be forgotten,” he says softly, causing Jongin to look at him, assessing. “Not by me.” 

Jongin sets down his spoon, tucks a lock of Yixing’s hair behind his ear, runs a gentle thumb across his cheek. “That makes two of us. I’m glad.”

 

\--

 

Yixing goes now, whenever he has time to spare. And each time, there’s something different, something new to welcome him.

“You’ve been busy.” The irises have multiplied drastically in number, dotting the clearing purple and blanketing the air with their sweet scent. The temple’s been repainted a rich red. The stairs no longer creak. “It’s nice of you to do this, for Lord Kai.”

Jongin hums, greeting him with a warm palm pressed to Yixing’s cheek. “And for his visitors, too.” 

There it is again, the awful tickling in his chest. Flustered, Yixing hurriedly takes out the Happy Meal he’d brought. Jongin’s enchanted with the toy, as Yixing predicted he’d be. 

“How’s school?” 

“The same.”

“Tell me more.”

“I don’t want to bore you.”

“You never do,” and Yixing wonders if Jongin realizes the unbearable effect his words have on him. He talks about how lucky he is having Jongdae as his singer, who can hit all the high notes he throws at him with ease. Talks about how Sehun sometimes aegyos his way out of practice, and Yixing lets him get away with it because his soft spot for the boy is a mile wide, and Sehun always shows up the next day with the moves down pat anyway. Talks about how they both bicker and compete for his approval during Chinese lessons, and have improved so much that Yixing can’t quite contain his pride. Talks about how Minseok hyung and Luhan keep dragging him out to eat, or to shop (mostly Luhan), to try and get him to relax and forget about school. 

“It’s weird, though. I don’t feel as tired as I thought I’d be, with all that’s going on. I’ve been sleeping well I guess.”

Jongin nods at his comment. “That’s good.” 

“I never used to like going to bed. It just seemed like such a waste of time.”

“And now?”

“Now…” Yixing pauses, searching for the right words. “There seems to be something waiting for me at the end of the day. In the dark, there’s a feeling of protection and respite. I’ve grown to look forward to it.” Yixing trails off, embarrassed. “It’s silly.”

Jongin winds up the little toy dog, sets it on Yixing’s knee. Yixing watches it waddle forward mechanically and tumble off into the grass. “I used to hate the dark.”

Yixing blinks. “Why?”

“It was unwanted. Unappreciated. It scared people. Nobody liked it.”

“And now?”

“I’ve realized that the dark holds more than loneliness and fear.”

Jongin looks up at the sky; Yixing looks at him, traces the lines of his face with his gaze, counts the freckles on his right cheek. He’s beautiful. 

“What else does it hold?” he nearly whispers.

Jongin smiles at him, soft and fond. “For those who embrace it, strength, and comfort. Love. All of these things.”

 

\--

 

“I’m dead,” Jongdae says, curled up in a fetal position in the music studio, and Yixing agrees sympathetically. “I can’t get all of this done on time.”

He’s got two papers due, a Chinese final, a vocal showpiece, not to mention the composition he’s working with Yixing on. 

“I can find another singer,” Yixing suggests, and he means it. He doesn’t want Jongdae’s own work to suffer. 

But Jongdae shakes his head, vehemently. “Stop that, hyung. Your piece is close to done. You think you’re actually going to find someone who can reach your notes?” 

“Humility is important, Chen-Chen,” Yixing says, even though he knows that to be true. 

“Ain’t nobody else gonna hit that high C.”

“Well I’m going to help you then.”

Jongdae groans. “I feel bad.”

“Don’t. Let me see your assignment requirements.”

They spend the next two weeks and a half holed up in the studio, working on the accompaniment for Jongdae’s vocal. When they get bored, Yixing helps Jongdae do some research for his papers, and goes through the steps for his own dance piece. They fall asleep in the studio with the lights on. On the days Yixing manages to drag himself back home, he barely has time to think before he collapses on his bed, drifting off instantly. 

He jerks awake in the middle of the night, the day before his dance presentation. Bad dream. Yixing doesn’t remember what was in it, except that it was dark, and he couldn’t see. Couldn’t see anything. He scrambles up, looking around wildly. He didn’t shut the curtains, and the dim light from the window casts flickering, sinister shadows around the objects of his room. 

Yixing draws his knees up to his chest, breathing hard, searching for the calm he’s grown so accustomed to sensing in the dark. He finds only coldness. 

He can’t stay here. Yixing grabs his jacket and keys, and flees the apartment. Takes a taxi to the forest, ignoring the bewildered look of the driver. He trips over bumps on the path up twice, scraping his palm badly on loose gravel. He’s panting when he finally stumbles into the clearing, and bleeding. 

“Jongin,” he calls meekly. 

The irises in the field are overwhelmingly thick now, angry bunches with a purple so intense it stings his eyes. The scent in the air is cloyingly sweet, suffocating. 

“Jongin,” Yixing says again. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I was scared,” he answers, truthfully. “Of the dark.”

Jongin sneers. “And you’ve come, for what? Comfort? You won’t find that here.”

It gets even colder, windier. It must be his imagination, for the shadows from the trees spill over and elongate, surrounding Yixing entirely, flaying him with their spindly fingers. He flinches as Jongin steps close. “The gods aren’t always kind, or good. They get angry. They get jealous. They can do terrible, terrible things.”

Yixing trembles, and asks, “Have I done something to earn Lord Kai’s wrath?” 

“Perhaps.”

“What can I do to atone?”

Jongin gazes at Yixing, long and hard; Yixing looks back helplessly, paralyzed in fear—then he sees Jongin shudder, and jerk back abruptly. Just as swiftly, the shadows peel away and melt back into the trees. Jongin shrinks away from him, suddenly small and unsure. Yixing wants to assure him, touch him, but he doesn’t dare move. 

“You’re hurt.” Jongin stares at his bleeding hand. 

“It’s nothing.”

Jongin makes to reach for him, but pulls his hand back, stricken. “Forgive me.”

“Why? You didn’t do this.”

“I… You were gone a long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Jongin shakes his head, defeated. “It wasn’t fair of Lord Kai to demand your constant presence. You have your own life to live.”

“Be that as it may, I like being here.”

“This was foolish.”

“Jongin, wait.”

But Jongin reaches up, cups his jaw with gentle hands, silencing him. “When you need me, only call my name, and I will come.”

It sounds far too much like a goodbye. “Jongin,” Yixing pleads, desperate. “Don’t leave—”

But the dark blinds him, wraps him up in sleep, so warm and tender it feels like a caress, and Yixing eyes fall close.

 

\--

 

He wakes, in his bed, at seven in the morning. He’s not tired; he’s slept well. His wounded palm's been cleaned. Yixing goes through his morning routine mechanically, goes to school. 

He performs his showpiece with Sehun brilliantly, perfectly. The examiner congratulates him after, and suggests the position of lead choreographer for the school’s annual recital next year. Yixing nods woodenly. Sehun wraps two fingers around his wrist, wondering; Yixing only tells him he’s fine.

Dusk, and Yixing is standing at the foot of the shrine. There’s no one around. 

“I said I’d show you, when it was finished.”

He bows once, twice, then dances in front of the stone.

 

\--

 

They go on a road trip to the countryside to celebrate the end of his school term. Minseok drives while Luhan croons along to the radio. Yixing stretches out at the back, watching the sky. In summer, the days get longer. It’s nine, yet the Sun still hangs in the sky. A harsh ray of light stabs his eyes and Yixing flinches. He misses the dark, the softness of it. He wonders where it goes to hide. 

They get back, exhausted but happy. Yixing manages a smile, and he can see relief in both their eyes. 

He goes to visit the next day, except the clearing is no longer what he remembers. The ground’s been torn up, and all around, purple irises lie trodden in the loose earth. Men in bright orange vests and yellow helmets point at the shrine, shouting instructions. There’s a bulldozer whirring next to it. One of the pillars have already collapsed. 

His heart thuds through his ears. “Stop,” he calls faintly. “Stop, stop, stop.”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he’s running, past the tape crossing the area off, past the construction signs, past the men, too slow to stop him, and into the path of the giant machine. 

“Stop!”

Someone grabs his elbow, and yanks him violently out of the way. “Have you lost your mind, boy? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

Yixing doesn’t care, pushes away from the man. “You can’t destroy this place.”

“We have a permit!” 

Yixing shakes his head, disbelieving. “No.”

“You're going to have to leave.”

“Jongin,” he screams. “Jongin, please!”

More workers converge on him, take hold of his arms, hard enough to bruise. He twists and jerks frantically, but he can’t fight them off. “Jongin!”

 _Only call my name, and I will come_.

His name. The one Yixing’s known, even before the day he met the man who could bend like flowers in the wind. “Lord Kai. Help, _please_.”

Black erupts from where he’s standing, swirling rapidly outwards until the entire clearing is covered. All the lights around sputter out. The wind howls as a form rises from the ground to stand in front of him. A raised hand, and liquid black spikes shoot forth, wrapping around the bulldozer. Metal and glass crumple like paper, and what’s left is tossed brusquely aside. 

The figure turns to face him.

His eyes are as black as coal, glinting and ominous. Shadows billow about him like a massive cloak, swallowing everything whole in their darkness. He’s petrifying to behold. Yet Yixing recognizes him; the familiar lines of his face, the slope of his shoulders. He’s known, deep down. Always has. 

Shouts of alarm and confusion turn into terror, and the men fall to their knees, clutching their throats.

 _They’re choking_ , Yixing realizes. _Choking on their own shadows_.

Yixing stares at the black ropes snaking viciously around the men; all he knows is how gentle they felt around him. Before him, Lord Kai radiates power and fury; all he knows is how carefully and tenderly the god treated a human. 

Yixing moves forward, claws his way past the black mantle, and throws his arms around what he knows to be good, what he knows to be Jongin. Hangs on tight, and lets the dark wash over him.

 

\--

 

He wakes alone. The clearing is empty, the men are gone. He’s alone. 

Yixing can’t feel anything but emptiness. Anger, and pain.

“You would do this to me?” he questions the empty air, and his voice echoes hollowly back to him. “You would play with me this way? You said there were two of us. Was that a lie?”

There’s no answer. His chest hurts frightfully so. Tears slip down his cheeks. “Come back,” he whispers in despair. “Jongin, Lord Kai, I don’t care. Come back.”

Achingly slowly, a form materializes in front of him. His eyes too, are wet, and Yixing sees in them an adoration so unfathomably deep it humbles and terrifies him. “Yixing.”

“Yes.”

“Yixing, Yixing, Yixing.”

“I’m here. I hear you.”

“Yixing,” and Jongin whimpers, arms wrapped around himself, shoulders hunched and shaking. “Aren’t you afraid? You saw what I could do, what I nearly did.”

“You were protecting me.”

“Will you even look at me? Yixing. Say you forgive me. Say you don’t hate me, I beg you.”

Yixing reaches forward and pulls Jongin into his arms, dares to place his lips on a god’s temple.

“I’ve loved you for so long, you alone who’ve sustained me all these lonely years. You brought me back from the brink of extinction. I was content before to see you once a year, but I became greedy—can you forgive me? I grew jealous and hateful when you were gone. I hurt you. How could I bear your look of fear? I had to leave. And now I’ve done worse. You must hate me, you must.”

“Jongin,” Yixing pleads, “don’t say such things.”

“Say the word and I go.”

“Never.”

Jongin nudges Yixing’s jaw with his nose meekly, desperate for contact, for comfort. “Why?”

How can he describe his own audacity? How can he explain why he dares touch a god? How can he help Jongin understand a human’s capacity to love? 

“You once told me that the dark holds more than loneliness and fear. You once told me that for those who embrace it, there’s more.”

Yixing pushes a hand through Jongin’s hair, cups the back of his head and brings him close. “In the dark, there was loneliness, but all I felt was your comfort. There was fear, but all I knew was your love.”

He kisses Jongin as tenderly as he knows how; Jongin kisses back, reverently, as if their roles were reversed. “This is why. I choose to embrace the dark. I choose to love you.”

 

\--

 

Yixing isn’t there when the shrine is demolished. The stone is uprooted, and thrown away. The field is laid bare, and work starts on a new apartment building. 

Jongin disappears for a third time, and Yixing’s heart can bear no more. 

 

\--

 

The earth continues to spin. September, and it gets chillier, and the nights grow longer once more. Luhan walks Yixing to school on the first day, ignoring his objections. 

“I’m in my final year at university, ge.”

“So? I’ve done this since you were six, I’m not about to stop now.”

Yixing pretends to sulk, but he squeezes Luhan’s hand. “Thank you.”

Luhan hadn’t uttered a question when Yixing showed up in the middle of the night that summer day, heartbreak in his eyes, hands packed with splinters from grasping broken bits of red painted wood too tightly. He’d only gathered Yixing in his arms and led him inside.

They reach the gate, and Luhan passes him over to Jongdae. Yixing rolls his eyes at the incredibly unsubtle wordless communication going on behind his back; Luhan might as well be screaming _take care of him_. Jongdae swipes freebies meant for first years and stuffs them into Yixing’s backpack, and then drags him to the arts administration office to collect his timetable. Sehun bounces up to them. 

“Lead choreographer, hm?”

“Trying to stay ahead of you, Sehunnie.” 

Sehun snorts. “Not just me. There’s a new boy who just transferred here, they say he’s out of this world. Moves like you’ve never seen before.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’ll meet him later at practice! He’s shy, but I’ve got a feeling you’d like him, hyung.”

Yixing smiles a little. “I’m sure. What’s his name?”

“Jongin. Kim Jongin.”

Yixing snaps his head up, but Sehun’s already chattering about lunch. They leave the building, greeted by an autumn breeze. Yixing stops. There’s a faint smell of— 

Oh.

The irises are in bloom.

 

\--

 

“You can be reincarnated as another deity,” Suho says gently. “Just because you’ve lost your home in the world, doesn’t mean you can’t make a new one.”

“I’ve made up my mind. I choose a mortal life.”

Kris sighs, but Chanyeol looks at him with understanding. “Very well. Tao will number your days. D.O. will guide your way back to earth.”

“Will I remember him?” 

“I’m sorry.”

Kai nods, feels himself fading, bids goodbye to his brothers. Just as Baekhyun’s light completely swallows him, he hears, “He's but a mere human. Is he worth it?”

“Yes,” he answers serenely. “Without a shadow of a doubt.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The iris gets its name from Ancient Greece, where the goddess Iris was believed to act as the bridge between heaven and earth.  
> 2\. This is random, but in Exo’s Drop That, the “Yeah” Jongdae sings in the bridge goes to a high C, which is incredible lol _ain’t nobody else gonna hit that_.  
>  3\. Repost from my [LJ](http://caesiumlight.livejournal.com/5255.html); I'll be moving some of my fic here.


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